


What Might Become of Us

by Kitsubasa



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bodyguard Romance, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Hands, M/M, but y'all know it won't last, mid-Shadowplay, pair with your favourite wistful music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsubasa/pseuds/Kitsubasa
Summary: Preparations for the heist are almost done. They've got until tomorrow to make it happen. In case it fails Shockwave wants Orion to enjoy the rest of the evening.He also wants to know what, exactly, their relationship is.
Relationships: Optimus Prime/Shockwave
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	What Might Become of Us

“We should go out together,” Shockwave says, and destroys any chance of a peaceful evening.

Not that there was much chance left.

Ratchet is out on reconnaissance at the basilica, Tumbler is strategising with the Outliers, and Prowl is MIA on his tantrum. There’s calm in Orion’s office but the moment any of their co-counter-conspirators return it’ll shatter like glass from an unreinforced window. 

It’s mostly dark. He never replaced the trophy cabinets, and without his awards to reflect the light, it pools in a few unhelpful places around the too-big room. The desk and the chair, too, are cheap replacements of his prior set. Since his encounter with Megatron the luxury hadn’t felt comfortable anyway.

Hunched over a datapad reading profiles of the Academy’s current class of Outliers Orion refuses to lift his gaze. If he does the Senator’s wretched, expressive face will talk him into trouble without even saying anything. Focus on the documents: keep your mind safe and your will unbroken. “No. We shouldn’t,” he answers. Resolute.

Slouched across an elaborate rolling chair he stole from the neighbouring office Shockwave tosses and turns with melodramatised impatience. “Tomorrow’s when everything happens. Given the low chance of success and the high chance failure destroys us, it makes sense to share a last-hurrah.”

Orion isn’t looking. He will not look. The shudder-clack of the chair’s components under the weight of a large-scale mech gets the performance across on its own. “It ‘makes sense’.”

“To anyone with a functioning spark.”

“How about a functioning brain?” This is interesting: there’s an Outlier who can telepo —

The final groan of the chair, though Orion failed to notice, was Shockwave standing. In a single, light step he’s crossed the office and taken hold of the datapad. “There’s a place not too far.” He tries to lever it from Orion’s hands but it’s not the easy motion he expected — customised for scientific work, he’s far the weaker of them.

Regardless, Orion surrenders. “Where we’ll be easy targets for the rest of the senate.”

Shockwave peels the datapad aside like a veil and sets it on the desk. He leans himself on the edge at a flattering angle, the dim light drawing rare tones from his new red paintwork. The secret to staying alive with your whole workplace gunning for you is a diverse arsenal of counter-weapons. Charisma, intellect, popularity, and when needs must, a certain seductive power. That’s how he’s lasted without a bodyguard.

How he’ll keep the bodyguard in line. Drumming hard metal fingertips on the solid arm of his chair Orion vents in resignation. “Fine.” His voice synthesises lower than intended, hits a bass note. “Not for long. Just because Prowl disappeared doesn’t mean we shou —“

“Come on,” Shockwave says as he redistributes his weight evenly across his feet, ready to move. The lustre shifts from his paint. Iridescent? Interesting. With a wry smile he points to the door, then to the full-length window on the opposite side of the room. “Jump, or walk?”

Is Orion annoyed or flattered by the joke? He’s never used his signature tactic in front of Shockwave and it’s nice to know his reputation precedes him — but refusing to play along is about to get him reprimanded. “There’s a perfectly good flight of stairs in the hall.”

“Spoilsport.” There it is.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Any further, you mean.”

There’s another bass note from Orion’s vocaliser, but his optics are bright.

⚡

The moment Orion knows he’s made a bad call, suspicion curdling to certainty inside his tank, is when he sees the signboard advertising vintage colonial-import high-grade. The neighbourhood Shockwave took him to is halfway through gentrification, old mainstays pulled out and trendy new bars snapped into the empty lots. That gave the address some plausible deniability. 430 is a dive, so why wouldn’t 432 be?

The facade’s still in bad shape, but as he stands in the doorway a moment too long, he realises it’s probably a style choice. A bar that’ll attract mechs who play at being tough without putting them in real danger — the Blurrs of the world. Some kind of microscope bumps past Orion’s waist (it’s too early to be full but it’s filling fast) and he shifts aside with a rehearsed apology. The design works as intended. Furthermore these officious (some outright official) clientele aren’t the kind any residents of the area want to spend long around. It’s looking quieter at 430 than it used to.

Of course, Shockwave went right in, forward as ever, and his handsome silhouette can be seen by the bartender, cocktail menu at the ready. On the walk over they decided he’d pay. Discrepancies in salary being what they are.

Still. There’s a tension, like friction on his tires, whenever he’s told to sit back and let someone else handle — honestly? Anything. For all the responsibilities on his broad shoulders he shouldn’t mind the opportunity to shed a few but he’s so unused to the sensation that it exhausts him instead. He will let this be taken care of. He will clench his fists, ‘til their cables whine, and watch from the entrance as he’s taken care of.

Several more mechs slip through. The music thrums, an uptempo mix from somewhere Northern, Polyhexian- or Tesarian-style. As the inputs he’s tracking grow denser and denser he opts to filter out any irrelevant figures, vision dimming the unimportant parts of the crowd and the decor. That leaves an assortment of minor political figures, grey market businessmen, off-duty enforcers who might be on the take, and outspoken functionists. He’s growing conspicuous in his spot by the door. He itches like he’s been splashed with corrosive.

At last Shockwave has their drinks; he invites him to a booth in the corner with two raised cubes and a smile. Some mineral Orion can’t name glitters at the bottom of each, shards of purple imported from a planet too far-flung to remember offhand. If he decides he cares he’ll read the menu.

Orion removes his faceplate, relaxes in the knowledge he’s already picked out every potential threat, and sets across the room. It takes some negotiation to get past the tables, the waiters, and the growing crowd. “That looks like a complicated order. You weren’t being too mean to the bartender, were you?” He takes the opposite seat and lands slightly off-balance.

“How’re you finding the place?” Shockwave asks as he sets Orion’s drink in front of him.

The booth behind them contains several members of the district health board, two of Ratbat’s admin staff, and a medical tech exec. They’re arguing over the ethics of the upcoming beast cup races. Orion has flagged the lot of them; though the typist and the filing clerk might be less dangerous than he’d assumed. Their argument has some salient points.

“It’s not as… quiet… as I would’ve liked.” He grasps his glass and looks at Shockwave with exhausted, dull optics.

“There’s too much wind to sit outside. You’ll have to suffer the music.”

“Next door. We could try the sports bar.”

“But it’s a special occasion,” he protests with a slight pout. He tilts his glass even though it’s half-empty already (somehow) and says a sarcastic “cheers”.

Discussion over.

They’re stuck here.

Given the company they’re in, Orion knows he should keep their conversation vague, but with the booth so loud and none of the other flagged mechs nearby, he decides to match Shockwave’s dangerous decision-making with some of his own. He leans in, nudges the glass out of his way, but doesn’t drink from it. “Perhaps we should’ve stayed to help Tumbler plan. That roof manoeuvre he and — the theoretician — hmm — _Skids_ mentioned involves a lot of unnecessary risk.”

Shockwave finishes his drink before deigning to reply. As he does his speech is distorted by his tongue pressing around his mouth, pushing purple shards from the gaps between his teeth. “Would it really make that much of a difference? — Come on, give it a try, there’s a nice tang around the geode — Finding someone else to hold a grappling hook?”

He lifts the glass to his mouth but doesn’t go further. “This isn’t about who’s holding the grappling hook. The fact our plan is _dependent_ on a _grappling hook_ is what bothe —“

“You don’t trust my Outliers?”

“He seems like a reliable mech. The grappling hook, however…”

“Simple, dependable, fit for purpose.” He taps his glass to the table, solidly enough to make a point, but not so hard it cracks. “To grapple or not to grapple isn’t the question. Neither’s your performance as a bodyguard. The danger we’re facing is ambivalent and inevitable and will claim us if it likes. Therefore: if I want to get drunk instead of wasting precious time trying to avert it I consider it my last fragging rite.”

The legendary temper. Normally it’d be deployed in favour of optimistic ends. Heating metal so it’ll bend to his whims. The change in outlook startles Orion more than the outburst itself. “This isn’t like you,” he says and instantly regrets saying it sober. He drinks. When they’re together he feels like an idiot as-is. Neither of them need further proof.

“The senate’s invincible. I should be invincible.” He stares at the bottom of the empty glass and grips the outer walls. “No. It’s an institution. I’m a man. Someone who’s gone too far. Driven off a cliff. Now robot or alt mode I’m bound for the smelter.” Raises his head. Locks optics with the bartender. Points to his cube. Thumbs up and a senatorial smile when he sees the right bottle taken from the rack. “Am I supposed to say otherwise?”

“It’s important to have hope.” Obvious, obvious, obvious. He takes a sip to dull the ache of his stupidity before it gets any more painful. Shockwave is right, the crystal has a pleasant tang, like citrine.

Instead of pity though, Shockwave’s optics bloom with fondness, the inner components unfurling to expose most of the bulb. After a quiet moment he says: “of course”. Any belief in his voice is a belief in Orion, not the plan. For those moments he’s willing to believe.

A waiter sweeps through, sets a new cube, and takes the old. The adjoining booth bursts into laughter. Only two seats remain at the bar and every table is taken. As Shockwave starts his second round Orion scans the room and crunches the shards leftover from his first sip. 

It’s hard to see among the bright colours of the elite mechs, their rainbows refracting from the unpainted steel furniture, but there’s an empurata in the opposite corner. Camo-green and tucked behind a mesh sculpture he only moves to draw himself further into the uneven wall. Sleek frame. Might’ve been — might be — a flyer. Alone, and his lone optic anywhere but the crowd, claws pinched around a straw. Occasionally the shutter flickers and hides that little yellow light. Then he might as well not be there at all.

When Orion returns attention to Shockwave, the second drink is gone and he’s looking at the empurata too. Lacing his fingers he presses the tips hard into the back of each opposing hand. The panels almost dent under the pressure. “The courts aren’t so hesitant to sentence forged anymore,” he says, “Back in — last year, 10th or 11th cycle? — local judge wanted to bodyglove his conjunx into something prettier. Dead Ender he picked refused, he invented evidence of syk dealing, even that kind of obvious revenge sentence passed. People don’t care why it’s done or who to.” He glances at Orion. Away again. “Nobody’s off-limits.”

It’s not a phenomenon Orion’s paid enough attention to. He realises that when he finds himself struggling for a good rebuttal; for either the societal text or the personal subtext. “They wouldn’t,” he says.

Shockwave’s face falls. “What’re the other options? Execution, imprisonment?” If he ever cared about the officials in the next booth he’s stopped. “For either of us. The Outliers too.”

Orion looks between Shockwave and the mech in the opposite corner.

Whatever discomfort the other patrons feel at being close to an empurata is half what the mech is feeling himself; hyperaware of how he fits-or-doesn’t in what used to be his world. Alt mode stereotyping is the kind of thing Orion likes to pretend he’s beyond — Megatron would disapprove — but sometimes ideas sizzle through his processors before he can put them out. When he looks at the flyer his instinct is... Primus’ sake, they think so much of themselves. Too much of themselves. To get like this? Probably this one thought _far_ too much. Shrinking from every light source. From each glimmer of paint in this glossy, gaudy place. 

So who knows what the process would do to the pair of them.

He finishes the rest of his drink in a single mouthful. Forcing his optics to stay in the booth, ignore the bar, keep this between them, he considers redeploying his faceplate to hide his concern until he realises that’d be more conspicuous than whatever sunken expression he’s wearing. “We mustn’t be afraid,” he lies, and his lies are always obvious, but this is so blatant it hardly counts as one anymore.

Shockwave scoffs; a sort of muddy emission from his vocaliser he must’ve learned through diplomacy with the organics. “Do you think we’re here just because I was afraid?”

Initially Orion wants to ask for clarification. Then he realises he doesn’t need any. Raising an arm he orders another round.

⚡

Inhibitors deactivated and both well past the limit for driving, they half-slump over the table in a daze, totally taken in the colour of the bar like they’re over their heads in an oil slick. They haven’t spoken in minutes. Neither of them are that type of drunk. Lost between their thoughts and the crowds they find themselves incapable of addressing each other. Whatever Shockwave’s processing he’s got his optics on the ceiling to do it, working across its funny lattice pattern row by row.

Orion contemplates a quartet of coordinated green-and-blue speedsters: the third-place pit crew from the last 500 race doing an energetic dance to impress a mining tycoon, even though it’s not a club and they keep knocking their doorwings into tables and other patrons. His lucid self jolts him out of gear for a second. What would people think if they noticed him staring? Soon enough he’s back in his slouch, unconcerned. If the heist fails — okay, yes, likely — none of this’ll matter anyway. There’ll be worse to note at his trial than staring at a group of mechs who were already making a spectacle of themselves.

Has Shockwave noticed, though? What does he think? Sometimes his optics do stray from the ceiling. To the crew. To Orion. To the empty table where the empurata had sat. The drink has shrunk his smile. Not that his expression is hard; he doesn’t ration his anger, that fire is fueled or it’s smothered. He seems empty.

Much like his current cube. Fifth, if Orion counted right, which he wouldn’t bet a single shanix on (in part because, this deep, he’s not sure he could tell between the denominations to pay it out). Where are they now? 

Slowly, Shockwave’s mouth hinges open, slower, he speaks: “is that what you’re into?”

Energon floods under the living metal of his face and tints him visibly pink. “They’ve created a stir and I —”

“Don’t know how to take a night off. Orion Pax, keeping the peace,” he laughs, “ready to lead them away, in cuffs, if need be.” Stepping his fingers across the table he flicks Orion’s cube, sending a pulse through the thin layer of liquid left at the bottom. “You didn’t give a proper answer earlier.”

To which question? They’ve both been avoidant. Maybe half of what they’ve said to each other has been met with a response. An amateur sportsman’s volley. Dropped topics. Trailing sentences. Looks too quick to return. “About consequences?”

“Why’d you think I wanted us to come here? A nice place. Public, and, the kind where this happens.” He tries to point at the dancers, but slips, and knocks the cube over. They’ve moved onto a different cocktail with slices of quartz schist hooked over the rim. He winces as it puddles on Orion’s side of the table but doesn’t make any attempt to clean, right the glass, or save the schist. 

“Because.” Orion doesn’t get further than that. He knows. His head’s clearer than Shockwave’s. He understands. 

With such a bleak future on the horizon it seems almost masochistic to admit. The particular _variety_ of fear pumping through their lines (aside from the classic, self-preservationist grade) is that confirmation will make the loss worse. Bad enough when a mission costs a business partner. Increased intimacy means increased pain. They could stay business partners.

”Orion,” Shockwave sighs, “how am I supposed to trust you with our cause if you can’t even handle your own feelings?” He fixes the glass, though, and puts the schist back on the rim once it’s upright. “You’re too passive. Soon that won’t be a workable approach.”

“Why?” His tone is sharper than he meant it to be.

And Shockwave is pleasantly surprised by that. He got under his plating. “Your speech to the senate was bold. Arresting Whirl was bold. But you wait for people to force your hand, or for invitations to join them. That might be safe but it won’t build any forward momentum. Getting rid of the senate —” He realises he’s been too direct, whispers an ‘oops’, puts a playful ‘shh’ finger to his lips. “— it’s like breaking a door. Forward momentum! A project that needs the single swing of a battering ram, not a dozen taps from a hammer.”

“Is that what we want? Getting rid of…” Orion chooses not to finish the sentence, repeating Shockwave’s gesture, as if his caution is in deference to his friend and not the nauseous whirlpool that’s formed in his tank.

“Your own words, aren’t they? Or, your choice to quote Megatron, at least. ‘How can we get rid of you?’”

“I didn’t mean —”

“They sent him to Messatine. Took his access to the terminals. Yet somehow the uploads continue. Angrier and angrier. I’d say he’ll advocate for revolution soon.”

“Too far.”

“Words haven’t been enough, though, have they? It would’ve been nice if they were. The council and the senate sit. I have a job. You have a job. Every patron in this bar has a job.”

“... your point?” 

Reaching out, he takes the schist, and puts it between his teeth to savour the sharpness of the mineral on his tongue. “Actions speak louder than words,” he says, “which makes it worrying when you can’t even manage that much, where our relationship is concerned.” With a crunch he bites it in half. Schist isn’t supposed to be chewed — it’s flavourful quartz streaked through tasteless rock — but he doesn’t spit out the section that’s stayed in his mouth. The other section falls back on the table.

The absurdity of the moment gives Orion’s brain a chance to reconnect with his systems, rev through the tension, and find a comeback. “You’re saying my reluctance to overthrow the government is a metaphor for my — what — my hesitation telling you that I care about you?”

“Other way around.” The front of his mouth is strewn with chips of mica. There’s a growing concern in his optics as he realises he’ll have to spit or swallow them. “Also: ‘care about me’? I don’t think you’re _capable_ of being direct.”

“You haven’t said it outright either.”

“Let’s see — what euphemisms haven’t we tried yet? Orion, we work well together. Orion, I don’t think there’s a savvier team in this business. Orion, you tamed this turbofox like no-one else could. Orion —“

“Shockwave,” he chides. Despite how awkward he feels discussing his, ah, feelings, the move away from politics has reduced the stress on his systems. There’s nothing incriminating a bystander could learn from this conversation that wasn’t obvious in their body language.

“Any more suggestions?” He reaches across the table in what looks like a move for the latch on his chest, but the distance is a whisper too wide, and his hand stalls in the gap. 

There aren’t any words for this. Not for the implied reason. Cowardly? He takes umbrage with being called cowardly. How many heights he leaps from in a week, he’s no coward. Confused? That’s what he’d say. “I’m — confused,” he says. Fresh stupidity surges through his lines.

Without missing a pulse, Shockwave hinges himself from his seat, “perhaps I’ll have to demonstra —“ he’s too bulky to stand upright and some of his kibble judders into the edge with a noise like a faulty can opener. 

They both wince.

In an attempt to save face, Shockwave wobbles and bends to a less damaging position, then tilts his hand to sort of… pat the uppermost part of Orion’s helm. “ _Later,_ ” he struggles, “sometime later.”

Over amongst the tables the speedsters finish their dance. The tycoon claps enthusiastically, then pulls the slightest and brightest of them onto his lap. A jealous quirk of Shockwave’s lips and a flare behind his optics make his failed intentions clearer. Of his myriad flaws, his hatred of being outplayed is particularly notorious.

⚡

The door doesn’t have closing hours posted — with the amount of money pouring in, they probably like to push the limits of both their staff and city liquor laws — but the thinning crowd tells Orion they ought to be leaving. His thighs still dented from his impact with the table, Shockwave glowers at the door, reluctant to stand and test his aches. But the waiters are checking their chronometers, double-checking the walls, tired and eager to head home. They won’t be the mechs that keep them here.

“Come on,” he says, standing demonstratively and offering his hand in assistance. “They’ll be wondering where we are.” Maybe Prowl’s returned to the station. Wouldn’t want him to know they left Tumbler behind, after that lecture earlier. What’s between Prowl and Tumbler is as obvious as what’s between him and Shockwave, albeit with some added clarity around what _it is._

Accepting Orion’s hand and sliding around the table to his feet, Shockwave makes a clean exit from the booth. He smiles in surprise at his own put-togetherness. “Back to your office?” He knows the answer — he already sounds disappointed.

“Where else? Your apartment block’s an active crime scene.”

“Which you visited without an invitation. Maybe I should do the same.” His grip travels further along Orion’s forearm, thumb settling in the elbow. That soft administrative-class rubber print. Lightly magnetised. The better to hold a pen with.

He pushes aside his urges and inclinations to let out a groan of plain annoyance. “It’s full of dust. The office is where I live. Never home.”

Shockwave’s circuits overclock audibly and some of his plain silver plates flare red. “If you’re trying to be polite about saying no, just say no; you’re guileless enough that the dust _could_ be the real problem so I can’t tell.”

… Okay. Orion refuses to spend any longer in this bar. They’re taking his embarrassment outside. Now it’s quiet the waiters keep glancing at them. Can he put his faceplate on yet? They’re done with their drinks. Yes. Faceplate on.

As they march to the street Shockwave hums zeusaphonically from inside his chest, white flashing at his joints along with the tune. It’s an uncommon trick Orion wasn’t able to pull off before his alterations and certainly wouldn’t be capable of now. Arcing lightning between exposed coils at the right frequency to play a song; either you’ve got the space and the correct components or you don’t. The rest of the Senator’s charm points are self-evident but this doesn’t get shown to just anyone. He’s honoured enough to bypass his instinctive need to cringe at the attention it’s drawn.

Outside they’re plunged into instant darkness. A lot of infrastructural upgrades have been made to the area but most of the streetlights remain broken. He frowns. None operational for half a block in either direction. If he hadn’t had his night vision upgraded when he entered the force they’d be in trouble. On foot, drunk, and close-ish to Dead End.

Blithe Shockwave doesn’t care. That deathwish he’s been running as a background process all night seems liable to activate. His song ends with a few thoughtful, isolated notes. Don’t. “If this is our last chance to find out —” stop it “— what it is we are —”

“It won’t be,” Orion says.

“Captivity, empurata, death,” Shockwave retorts, “captivity, empurata, death…” He counts on his fingers.

“You’re wrong.”

“If there’s nothing to worry about why put me under protection?”

“Because I can stop them.”

A master orator, Shockwave knows how to choose his words: the best for every situation. Which makes what he says next worse than if anyone else said it: “no you can’t.” The smile. “If I’m meant to die I’m meant to die. Ideally, that won’t be the case. Fighting the world to prevent it is a waste of both our energy.” He takes Orion’s broad shoulders and holds him steady. “It’s like the AVL’s messages to Sentinel, about being lucky every time versus being lucky once. There’ll be a bullet someday. It’s true tomorrow’s likelier than most. What I’m suggesting is preparing for the worst but —”

He’s steely. “Hoping otherwise.” Won’t let the burden shift quite yet.

Every degree of excess heat vents from Shockwave at once, like a plane about to take off. “So Orion. Futile heroics, or something meaningfully ordinary?”

At the northern end of the street the headquarters loom over the skyline, looping and curving pre-Functionist architecture at odds with the blockier styles of the city’s newer landmarks. The southern end, meanwhile, slams into the foot of several huge apartment developments doing a discount rendition of Translucentica Heights. For the upper-middle, the aspirants, the people at the bar. Enforcers included. Per Orion’s own admission he’s barely ever home — probably didn’t put effort into choosing it either — so when Shockwave grins in that direction it’s a clear, calculated, and clever guess on his part.

“If you’re some kind of no-interface-before-conjunx traditionalist I can perform the ceremony in lieu of standard formalities.”

“You’re a menace,” Orion grumbles fondly, though the weight of Shockwave’s words is still on him, keeping him from real playfulness. 

“Of course I am.” He hums a victory bar. “It’s why I need your protection.” All his lights dim. “What’s the verdict?”

⚡

Of course Orion was telling the truth about the dust. It would be a modest apartment if it weren’t near-empty and covered in the stuff. Instead it’s gloomy, liable to block somebody’s vents, and losing property value fast.

There’s a flicker of disappointment across Shockwave’s optics as he cancels some plan or another to push his friend against the (grey) prep bench or the (grey) work desk.

Desperate to frame his inexperience as stoicism Orion leans on the nearest wall and watches the front door close behind them. He ignores the sour sensation of his drinks lurching back up toward his filter. This hasn’t happened in years. It’s common knowledge Shockwave has plenty of recent experience. In a just world he’d have had the chance to prepare but this is an unjust world where people he cares about get assassinated on the regular. Better to do this wrong than not at all. So they’ll do it wrong and hope they get the chance to do it better. A future where they laugh at how long it took and his awkwardness and the dust.

Shockwave clicks his vocaliser in disappointment. “In the past I’ve been a fan of starting on the nearest flat surface then seeing where the mood takes us, but you don’t even make _that_ easy, do you?”

The lights across his chest blink involuntarily. Without any of the expressive panels most mechs roll with they’re his worst tell. Resigned to being easily read he slides back his faceplate. Of course he’s tinged pink underneath. “I warned you,” he says.

“For some reason I thought it’d be an overstatement.” He approaches the desk and slides two fingers over it. Leaves two pale lines on the surface. “More fool me.”

“There’s a clean slab through in my room.”

“Excellent! We’ll say the traditional prayer to Primus, time exactly ten minutes, and when we’re done we’ll join Ratchet at the basilica to beg forgiveness for our impropriety.”

“I don’t have any religious concerns about this.”

“No. You’re just flavourless. Of course.”

“Not even that —” he feels the pistons in his throat stick, voice not quite synthesising how he’d like “— it’s, I haven’t had anyone by since I was in training. None of which ended well. Physically, I mean. I’m not sure what to suggest that won’t break us in ways we’d rather avoid.” Perhaps being forthright will reduce the number of comments Shockwave makes about his clumsy behaviour. Whether out of empathy or pity he doesn’t mind. As long as the Senator holds his tongue.

Strolling the short hallway that leads to the rest of the apartment, Shockwave checks the doors in order, shaking his head at each until the last. “Luckily I wasn’t expecting any suggestions. I’ve got plans.”

When doesn’t he? “On this particular occasion I’d like veto power.”

“Of course. I’m Mechiavellian, not a monster.” He proceeds without a backward glance. “It’s just that I figured you’d be clueless and prepared some options in case. Saves us from boredom,” he calls, “or injury, as the case may be?”

With a short, sharp vent Orion follows.

The disuse of the rest of the apartment means his room is in a different kind of mess. Not unclean — these surfaces are swept and kept matte white or gloss silver — but every useful possession Orion owns is cluttered inside. Datapads are stacked on the side table, replacement kibble is on the shelves, paints and polishes are visible in the half-open closet. Despite five whole rooms to himself he seems to have forgotten the others are there.

Shockwave reclines on the recharge slab, stretching his arms overhead less to stretch than to flaunt his joinery, the clean red panels of his lower torso. There goes that iridescence. He shimmers cooler tones. “‘Tidy’ he said.”

Nudging an escaped paint can back in the closet Orion enters. “I never said ‘tidy’. I said ‘clean’.” He sits himself on the corner of the slab and allows himself a moment of self-consciousness about his scratches and dents. Of course, it’s likely they’re part of his appeal, medals of valour, but they’re nothing you’d see in a parts catalogue. He can’t play at not caring when the contents of his room have disproven it in advance.

Display finished, Shockwave relaxes his posture, and swings himself around so his front is closer. “Look at you, abusing semantics! I’m so proud.” He settles a hand on Orion’s thigh.

Administrator’s hands. Soft rubber over specialty haptic panels over the standard core of brackets and bars. Second only to medics for gentleness and dexterity. The few organics Orion has met have had a similar structure; a soft top layer that allows for steady grip without applying pressure. If it weren’t for the strength his hard casing offers he’d rage at Primus for denying most of the species such a wonder.

But he said he wouldn’t bring religion into this. “If someone else were guarding you, would you have brought them instead?” he asks, doing his best to ignore the slide of Shockwave’s hand along his thigh plate toward his hip. The heavy plating doesn’t provide as much sensitivity as lighter equivalents would but the resulting subtlety of the sensation somehow makes it more distracting. Especially as it travels inward. Deft fingertips catch the inner seam between the front and back plates. He could activate some of his sensory dampeners and allow himself to focus. If he wants to. Why would he want to?

“Probably not,” Shockwave says. He adjusts so he’s kneeling at an angle, his chest close to Orion’s back, his other arm assuming a mirror position on Orion’s other thigh. “Who can say? You’ve heard the rumours. I’ve got plenty of fallback options.” Skipping his fingers over the indentations and decorative panelling on Orion’s torso he finds the latch for the Matrix compartment and opens it to reveal the gap. “They _are_ fallbacks though.”

“What makes me special?” He tolerates the action; if only because it keeps Shockwave’s hands and attention on him.

He pries into the compartment and feels at the walls, empty hooks designed to carry the Matrix, positive and negative conductors that’ll complete the circuit with the rest of Orion’s body. Despite the fact it’s not fully integrated with his living metal the reverberations into the nearby tissue keep him aware of any meddling. “You’re the option I actually like.” While he’s distracted by his hands in his chest Shockwave leans around and presses his lips to his cheek.

Accepting that this might be his last chance to feel them he gives himself to those lips and hands. Whatever their plan might be.

Perhaps there’s comfort in being taken care of.


End file.
